That single paragraph alone was enough to cast long shadows over every story Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had told him about his parents for as long as he could remember.
It also raised a far more immediate question: how, then, had he ended up at Number Four, Privet Drive?
And beneath every other revelation lay the greatest truth of all.
Magic was real.
Actual, living magic.
Words and gestures that could bend the impossible into shape.
Forces that laughed at the tidy laws of physics.
Potions capable of knitting bone or banishing disease.
And runes—patient, precise runes that, in the right combinations, could accomplish almost anything.
Harry’s grin widened as he lifted the notebook once more.
I wonder if I could design a cluster that would make Dudley lose his appetite, he thought.
Far simpler than attempting a charm.
Or better still… a sequence that would convince them all to leave me completely alone.
He settled deeper into the narrow darkness of the cupboard, the pages already open beneath his fingers.
There was studying to be done.
Several weeks later Harry found himself heaving his trunk aboard the Hogwarts Express, thoughts drifting to the first friend he had ever made.
Hagrid had been kind in every way that mattered, yet even Harry had to admit the gentle giant had been a dreadful introduction to the magical world—bordering on disastrous.
The man had never once explained how to reach a platform that did not appear to exist.
Fortunately Harry had already read enough of Hogwarts: A History to know about the barrier between Platforms Nine and Ten.
Had he not, he might still be standing on the wrong side of it.
The thought alone was enough to make him suppress a shudder.
On the other hand, Hagrid had given him Hedwig.
An actual birthday present—his first.
That single gift had cemented Harry’s loyalty for life.
He smiled down at the snowy owl, who twisted her head and hooted softly before reaching through the bars to nip his fingers with gentle affection.
“Excuse me, is anyone sitting over there? Most of the other compartments are full and I’d rather not drag this any farther,” said a red-haired boy roughly Harry’s age, pushing into the compartment with a large trunk in tow.
“Seat’s open,” Harry answered.
“I’m Harry, by the way.”
“Ron Weasley. Have you seen Harry Potter anywhere? I heard he’s supposed to be on this train and I wanted to say hello before we reach the school.”
“Er…” Harry ran a hand through his hair, still undecided whether to reveal his surname, when Ron’s eyes widened and he pointed straight at Harry’s forehead.
Too late Harry realised he had exposed the cursed scar.
“Blimey! You’re Harry Potter! Why didn’t you say so? I’m Ron Weasley!”
“Yes, I know. You introduced yourself a moment ago.”
“Oh—right. Well, bloody hell! Harry Potter! So how did you do it? Do you remember? Did it hurt?”
“I’d really rather not talk about it.” Harry sighed, already reaching into his pocket for his mother’s runes notebook.
She had been right: the study of runes was a perfect way to quiet the world.
Previously that world had consisted only of Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia and Dudley, but the principle still held.
“But why not? You’re famous, mate! It’s brilliant! What I wouldn’t give to be in your place!” threatened to split his face.
Ron’s grin
Harry’s expression hardened.
“You’d rather have your parents dead and live with relatives who hate you? Be my guest. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to read.”
Ron’s mouth fell open.
He sputtered for several seconds, colour rising in his cheeks, before Harry bent over the notebook once more.
He had already corrected several of his mother’s errors, added fresh observations of his own, and sketched the beginnings of entirely new clusters.
With luck he might finish one of the simpler ones before the month was out—two months at most.
The carving tools from Diagon Alley had supplied everything he needed.
Convincing Hagrid to buy them two years early (why Ancient Runes waited until third year remained a mystery; the subject was hardly complicated) had been difficult until Harry played the “closer to Mum” card.
The half-giant had melted instantly.
Ron remained mostly quiet for the next few hours, though occasional low grumbling reached Harry’s ears.
It was mildly irritating, yet the boy left him to his work.
By the time the food trolley arrived Harry had finished the cluster he was studying and felt a flicker of guilt.
It was not Ron’s fault the entire magical world seemed determined to idolise him.
He bought several extra snacks as a peace offering.
“Here—want some? I think I took too much.”
Ron’s hand hovered over the Chocolate Frogs.
“Really? You don’t want them?”
“Go ahead.” “Thanks!” Ron lunged forward, seized two fistfuls of sweets, tore open wrappers and stuffed them into his mouth.
“Want a sandwich?” he offered through a mouthful of cakes.
“Mum made them. They’re good, just not sweets.”
“Sure, thanks.” Harry accepted, struggling to hide the sudden hunger in his eyes.
That single sandwich contained more meat than he had been allowed all week.
He was not about to refuse.
The compartment door slid open again and a pair of identical red-haired twins entered, arms laden with sweets.
The family resemblance was unmistakable.